Rondeau

Inscribe the name of my holder,
And bone-deep let it be written.
Before the brand can grow colder,
Inscribe the name of my holder;
On unseen nape let it smolder.
Where cat's mouth seizes the kitten
Inscribe the name of my holder,
And bone-deep let it be written,
To hurt me when I am older.
Inscribe the name of my holder;
Soak down my neck, past my shoulder,
My muscles swollen and bitten.
Inscribe the name of my holder,
And bone-deep let it be written.
My pus and lymph as the solder,
Inscribe the name of my holder;
My toes will blacken and molder
As through my blood I am smitten.
Inscribe the name of my holder,
And bone-deep let it be written.

To Rachael

In my head, your voice
is undercut by the tenor line of an old Lutheran hymn,
and dreams that weren't of you
haunt the corners of my mind, blurred by indifferent memory.
Each time I ask, your voice
answers, so sticky I want to lick it,
and I imagine you in the shape of a paper doll,
as the curve of a porcelain cheek,
nothing but cheap nylon lace and ringlets,
and there is no thanking you, and I know
that I am an inconvenience, and I want
to stop asking, but I need
your answers.

Ballade

Glowing, the far-off, red-stained planet spars
nightly with Saturn, drawing close to tie
into a triangle of heavy bars
it to itself with Spica where they fly
in the Southwest, too large for us, too high.
Watching, I wonder, What does this portend?
What sort of war does bright and virile Mars
wage against Saturn, making him defend
some unknown prize that must in Virgo lie?

If there were answers found among the stars,
then I would turn my face up to the sky,
like as a child to fireflies in jars,
and I would ask the Heavens, Who am I?
Why do I live? And Why may I not die?
Why do I long for those who, in the end,
scorn or ignore me, leaving me with scars,
while for so many souls who call me friend,
I can feel nothing, even though I try?

Unsuitable things - Snow falling on the houses of the common people. Moonlight shining into such houses is also a great shame.

Judging the world, discerning butterfly,
what is your aim?  How helpful can this be?
Making no move, you watch and sing and lie.
How can you wield those eyes that conquer me,
sharper than swords, and still refuse to see?
Would you forbid this river, when it floods,
even to touch the thirsty and the dry?
This is too much, but still you kiss the buds,
blind to the rot that's poisoning the tree.

Phaedrus

Beautiful, in your beauty to my eye,
faintly reflected images are seen,
truths that I breathed before I left the sky.
Straining against my soul, uncurling, green,
bursting from veins, my wings are warm and clean.
Three thousand years from now, we'll reach the Prime;
we will arrive together as we fly.
I will instruct you, teach you not to lean,
bring you along as I begin to climb.

If there is pain in this, I'll show you why:
something amazing lives behind a screen.
Only through windows can we even try
to come to what Reality might mean,
yet we must make this mystery our queen.
Come very close, but do not touch. Our crime
smudging the glass would mar it, twist it wry.
All we can love is in the mirror's sheen;
mirror me as I mirror you through time.

Ballade

I wish I were a character inside a book--
I'd never wonder whether something would occur
that I could call extraordinary. If I took
the opportunity, it's certain I could spur
myself to save the world, to fly, to rescue her...
In such adventures, I know home's supposed to look
relaxing, safe, desirable--but I suspect
that I'd be happier away; as if I were
aware of my good fortune, I would not object.

Hōgan

In all the years of the imperial reign,
his life will be remembered as a spring
when all at once, as pink as blood, were plain
a thousand cherry trees, all blossoming
together like a wild and careless thing.
And he explodes through history, a stain
of color in a timeless, carved jade frame,
born late in March with petals scattering,
and falling dead before the summer came.

For Fair Welcoming

I.

I wait, Mignon, by the kitchen stair,
while you listen to the aprons chide.
While you sit in the dining room chair
and imagine yourself gone, untied,
I envision the world, long and wide.
Together, our visions flash and flare;
alone, they are more convincing still.
I like waiting--the world is untried!
The view from the stair looks past the hill!


II.

If you are trapped in the air--
if they watch you with great care--
if this is all that you dare,
I will wait for you outside,
welcoming you with more rare
welcome to wear,
as you did me, starry-eyed.
Even with no fruit to bear,
I'm glad to swear
to you my oath to abide,
because I would rather share
this daydream with you than pair
my joy in you with despair
in circumstances of pride.
If you are trapped in the air--
if they watch you with great care--
if this is all that you dare--
I will wait for you outside.


III.

Fair as are the worlds that fill
the roads we ride,
Fair Welcome is far more fair.
In him, all my own dead chill
I will confide.
Fair as are the worlds that fill
the roads we ride,
I like better the soft thrill
of tears that slide
down his cheek, into his hair.
Fair as are the worlds that fill
the roads we ride,
Fair Welcome is far more fair.

Formes Fixes: Olivier de Vienne

Rondeau

Telling your proud commander,
"You are a fool!"
ought to have been a danger,
but I, who heard this slander,
laughed, as my rule.
Telling your proud commander,
"You are a fool!",
scolding, you showed me grander
tactics to cool
heads and defeat the stranger.
Telling your proud commander,
"You are a fool!"
ought to have been a danger...


Virelai

Here, it doesn't signify
that two minutes back, a cry
went between us, sharp and shy:
in a battle, we are one.
Just another squabble--why
get girlish, sigh
in the quietness, and shun
your unruly friend? Apply
that mercy: try
to ignore what's past and done.
You are pierced by spears, and by
my bravado; I will fly
to you with no thought of my
petty anger: there is none.
Here, it doesn't signify
that two minutes back, a cry
went between us, sharp and shy:
in a battle, we are one.


Ballade

Honestly, I believe I never felt
pain for another like the way I cried
(and we will scrape the demons off the pelt
covering Earth--their treason and my pride)
when it was you who spoke my name and died.
Spain spun, its hinges loosened as you dealt
words ever poised and justice. I believed
I would not ever be without my guide...
but, as it happens, I was not long grieved.

Win

This morning, I just kept going,
churning the ink
and pressing the sheets of paper,
the power in me for knowing
secrets, I think;
this morning, I just kept going,
churning the ink,
and wild-running joy kept growing,
just like a drink
of some kind of godly vapor;
this morning, I just kept going,
churning the ink
and pressing the sheets of paper.

For Dulce

Virelai

Every moment of my fate
works on me with shame and hate:
this because I did not wait
but accepted second best,
and I hate and thank the trait
that rules of late,
sensible, resigned, unblessed,
that prevents with rapid rate
of verbal freight
all I want at my behest--
and I wanted her to bait
fates and fairies as my mate.
Now I am no longer great,
which I know and have confessed.
Every moment of my fate
works on me with shame and hate:
this because I did not wait
but accepted second best.


Rondeau

Everyone loves to love her;
everyone aims,
frantic, for her attention.
Everyone tries to shove her
into his games--
everyone loves to love her.
Everyone aims
to put themselves above her,
action that names
any I wouldn't mention.
Everyone loves to love her;
everyone aims,
frantic, for her attention.


Ballade

Everyone knows the blood and heat that tease
under the skin that sheathes her frozen bones.
Everyone knows that I would like to seize
everything my imagined darling owns--
but I would never risk her pouts and moans.
Everyone knows how hard I work to please,
answering strictness with a cheerful fist.
None of my labors can repay my loans;
everyone knows that she does not exist.

Formes Fixes for Hebe and Ganymède

Rondeau

I love to make love to Hebe,
kissing her skin,
for she is like Ganymède
and ever untouched, as Phoebe.

Starting again,
I love to make love to Hebe.

Kissing her skin
leaves all of her senses sleepy.

That's when I win.

Because I am dead,
I love to make love to Hebe,
kissing her skin,
for she is like Ganymède.


Ballade

Ganymède lives inside a picture book.
No one could reach to take his outstretched hand.
Even from other novels, heroes shook,
leaving the war campaigns that they had planned,
sighing for his idyllic summer land.
If it is breakable, I'll break it. Look!
I am like Roland; I will be like Zeus.
I am the one to take him where I stand;
I am the one to make his leash a noose.


Virelai

After I have had a drink
of your dark, untainted ink,
Cupbearer, oh, do you think
there will be enough for more?

Scurry down your kitchen sink
inside the chink:
is there much of it in store?

Will you shrivel up and shrink
or rot and stink
if I drain you to the core?

Give me drafts that won't unkink,
don't run dry, and never blink;
always more--and you're the link,
you're the one whom I adore.

After I have had a drink
of your dark, untainted ink,
Cupbearer, oh, do you think
there will be enough for more?

Hello

Eyes are black and wide and warm and wet;
skin is clear, embalmed in ribbon, chic;
half a million rushing thoughts, and yet
not a sound, the words that she would speak
left to interested parties' pique.
She, not having any mouth, is mute,
pleading with her eyes against the threat:
Care for me, I'm sweet and young and cute;
give your loyal mercy to the weak.

Ballade: What I Did This Summer

Early today, the lesson that I learned
was that the people who are most inclined
toward thinking well of me, if they discerned
the actuality within my mind,
would be disgusted, so I am resigned
never again, for fear of being spurned,
to reveal any of my secret heart,
to reveal any hopes; I am confined
by my own self, secluded and apart.

To My Husband

Lately, the mornings that I wake
safely and pleased with pride to break
fast with the day have been increased
threefold. I think that I’m released
by your concern and for your sake.
I believe that this lack of ache
may be the nearest thing I make
to the unfailing love that ceased,
and I accept.
I am at peace with gold opaque
veiling the red of pain. Remake
colorless, tasteless cake at least
into a bread that has no yeast,
and I accept.

Rondeau Redoublé

Today is the last
day the magnolias bloom.
Their petals have massed,
ready to fall to their tomb.

Too many days have brought gloom.
Of all that have passed
out of the silvery womb,
today is the last:

the penitent, fast,
gradually-filling-the-room,
shrinking, and vast
day the magnolias bloom.

The eyes of the blast
sprinkled all over the loom,
uneasy and glassed,
ready to fall to their tomb.

People are driven to groom,
however they're classed,
sweeping them up with the broom.
Wherever they're cast,
their petals have massed.

Rondeau: to my younger sister

Counting over every stone,
I discover I've been shown
all of the world in glowing
shadow and evening, flowing
over earth, and overblown.

An enchanting bud has grown
underneath my sullen throne,
fresh into life and growing
out of my time.

All my muscle, all my bone
balks at giving up its own,
all the while, fully knowing
whispers of age are showing,
and my gift is just a loan
out of my time.

Ballade

April day: how refreshing to be sane,
speaking without the urgency and fear,
walking in sun and wandering in brain.
It is so strange for life to be this clear--
not to persuade or whisper in the ear;
I don't know how to act without that pain.
Bubbling up, the world is flushed and fired,
splashing on me the summer of the year.
What a relief: not to be warm or tired.

Formes Fixes

I. Virelai

Irving damn Berlin was right:
the boy I marry must be white
and pink as nurseries and quite
as pure and try as hard to please.
The boy I cradle sharp and tight
within my sight
must be as warm as gentle seas.
His polished nails will shine in light,
his hair full-bright
with flowers from the summer trees.
A doll to carry, soft and slight,
a kitten purring through its fright,
satin, lace, and stars and night:
the boy I marry must be these.
As usual, the man was right:
the boy I marry must be white
and pink as nurseries and quite
as pure and try as hard to please.


II. Rondeau

The boys who are sweet and pretty
he says are lies.
It hurts him, but I still want them.
My insults will draw his pity,
not his disguise.
The boys who are sweet and pretty
he says are lies.
He can't be as smitten, witty,
constant, or wise;
I know, and I hate to flaunt them.
The boys who are sweet and pretty
he says are lies.
It hurts him, but I still want them.


III. Ballade

I cannot answer this in a ballade:
it is like armor on Akhilleus’ heel
(though all the while, he never was a god—
nor was Patroklos, strong as his appeal);
it is like lightless light, insensate feel,
anhydrous water, genuine façade.
And who can say that there was no mistake
in our creation or in our ordeal?
And who can say we will not fall and break?

Formes Fixes

I. Ballade

Since, in a way, he always will be mine,
and in another, he can never be,
I have been watching him across this line
with fascination that becomes the key
that can transcend the lock forbidding me
from the perfection that infects my spine
with heated shivers; but his soft allure
must be resisted--if my soul were free,
then maybe I would find he were not pure.


II. Virelai

I know my beloved though
we have never met below
daylight's canopy; I know
how my soul goes out to him.
I hear every catch to slow
his voice's flow,
feel the trembling of each limb,
see the way his pupils grow
as daydreams glow,
know the story of each whim,
follow the uncertain blow
mixed with passion in a show
of bravado, let him go
slack against me, yielding, slim--
I know my beloved though
we have never met below
daylight's canopy; I know
how my soul goes out to him.


III. Rondeau

No matter how much I would, I
don't stay my hand,
can't stop my desire to haunt him.
I want what is good. How could I
leave it unplanned?
No matter how much I would, I
can't stop my desire to haunt him.
If all that exists is good, I
can't understand
why I am wrong to want him.
No matter how much I would, I
don't stay my hand,
can't stop my desire to haunt him.